


runneth over

by stonedgeralt



Series: monsterfuck of the week [2]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game)
Genre: Bottom Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Monsterfucker Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Other, Teratophilia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-19
Updated: 2020-07-19
Packaged: 2021-03-05 02:28:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25343212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stonedgeralt/pseuds/stonedgeralt
Summary: The roots disappear in a cloud of smoke, revealing a massive humanoid monster cloaked in tattered cloth. Its spindly arms end in long, dagger-sharp claws, and black eyes peer from above a beard tangled with twigs and leaves.Spriggan.---Geralt got what he wanted, but it wasn't enough.
Series: monsterfuck of the week [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1749265
Comments: 18
Kudos: 161





	runneth over

**Author's Note:**

> With the mini bang behind me, I was FINALLY able to finish this installment! And don't worry - I have a whole list of monsters for Geralt to fuck, so stay tuned!
> 
> Thanks to [Cap_Sweet_And_Salty_Sadness](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cap_Sweet_And_Salty_Sadness/), [VolWolf](https://archiveofourown.org/users/VolWolf/), and [riots](https://archiveofourown.org/users/riots/) for their beta work and for yelling with me on Discord!

Geralt’s tired – bone-tired. He wants nothing more than to sit back and relax at Corvo Bianco with a bottle of Everluce. But as soon as he arrives in Toussaint from Velen, he hears word of something killing hunters in the forest near Fox Hollow. Geralt considers pretending he didn’t hear the woman in the Ruddy Brush Auberge, but she’s crying about how her husband won’t be able to feed their family if he can’t check his traps. After downing the dregs of his third drink, Geralt introduces himself, gets the information he needs, and heads north.

As he rides over the bridge leading out of town, Geralt feels a sudden pang of heat in his belly, and he knows immediately that it’s not the ale.

_Fuck._

He’d planned on stopping by the Belles before going home, but he hadn’t made it that far. Geralt urges Roach into a canter and does his best not to focus on the lewd images floating at the edges of his consciousness.

Prior to leaving No Man’s Land, Geralt had gone out of his way to visit the Passiflora again. He’d approached the same man as before, who greeted him with a knowing smile. Geralt hadn’t brought up that he wanted to be on the receiving end this time until they were both naked. To his credit, the courtesan didn’t balk at Geralt’s request, even though the witcher’s wording had been rather awkward. He could clearly tell that Geralt was nervous, and did everything he could to get him to relax.

Geralt had nearly bitten through his bottom lip when the man finally entered him. It was good, really… but it wasn’t _enough._ The courtesan’s blunt fingernails scraping down his spine and his whispered words of encouragement had only served to remind Geralt that the cock inside him, while not exactly small, was still only human.

Embarrassingly, despite the combined efforts of himself and the courtesan, Geralt didn’t come. The courtesan waved off his apologies and, instead of kicking Geralt out immediately, laid with him for a while, soothing him and telling him that he’d done very well. Grateful, Geralt had paid him enough for three visits, and had left Novigrad for Beauclair the same day.

The journey to Toussaint took longer than Geralt anticipated: Roach had thrown a shoe, then a storm flooded the main road, and he’d encountered a group of bandits. After all of that, Geralt had wearily trudged into Fox Hollow and immediately followed the scent of ale to the Ruddy Brush.

And now he’s accepted a contract, like a damned fool.

Geralt heaves a put-upon sigh that ends up sounding more like a whine. Roach’s gait is making him rather uncomfortable, so he decides to make the rest of the short journey on foot. He dismounts and absently pats Roach’s flank, then walks into the forest.

At first, everything seems fine. Birds are singing merrily, and there’s a herd of deer grazing ahead of him. Geralt spots wolf tracks, but they’re about a week old, so he continues on. He also comes across a few traps, all of which are empty, but disarmed - strange, but perhaps the local fauna is just clever. As he treks deeper into the trees, Geralt notices a few ravens, but not enough to concern him. 

_Some caves nearby - maybe a lone kikimore? An arachnomorph?_

But when Geralt checks the caves, they’re quiet, which is unusual in itself. He doesn’t think he’s come across an empty cave in his entire career.

At this point, he’s sweating lightly. Geralt takes a moment to retie his hair - some strands are clinging to his damp face - and then readjusts his armor and trousers, specifically over his crotch. He finds himself hoping it’s just an insectoid prowling the forest, something easy and quick. His mind starts to wander, and he wonders whether courtesans in Toussaint have different tricks than those up north.

The birdsong suddenly ceases, and the deer scatter. Instead of moving deeper into the forest, they head in the opposite direction.

_Dammit._

Twigs snap to his left. An enormous gray wolf steps out of the underbrush. Geralt draws his steel sword, listening intently for sounds indicating the approach of the rest of the pack. He expects to hear paws padding along the forest floor. Instead, Geralt hears the soft fluttering of wings, and looks up to see dozens of ravens alighting in the trees behind him. The wolf hasn’t moved. Its dark eyes gaze at Geralt intently, and he’s suddenly not sure that this encounter is just a coincidence.

Geralt bares his teeth. “Fuck off,” he spits, waving his sword toward it, trying to make the wolf aware of its mistake.

Instead, the wolf sits down and tilts its head curiously. It hasn’t blinked once.

Unbidden, the image of a wyvern enters his mind. Geralt swallows thickly and shakes his head, trying to cast it out, but the damage is done: He’s trembling now, his legs feel like they’re made of water, and his skin is tingling.

The wolf throws its head back and howls. The ravens take flight, a whirlwind of black as they form a tight spiral and disappear through a gap in the treetops. Geralt barely notices, because he’s focused on another sound: branches creaking in a non-existent breeze.

_Leshen._

Despite his current state, Geralt’s training kicks in. The steel sword in his hand is replaced by silver in an instant. The ground begins to shake beneath his feet, and tendrils of dark smoke curl upward from the earth. Geralt leaps backwards and to the right, narrowly avoiding the thick roots that suddenly burst forth in the place he’d just been standing.

_No, not a leshen._

The roots disappear in a cloud of smoke, revealing a massive humanoid monster cloaked in tattered cloth. Its spindly arms end in long, dagger-sharp claws, and black eyes peer from above a beard tangled with twigs and leaves.

_Spriggan._

Geralt curses. He readies himself to dodge more roots, but the ground is still. The spriggan isn’t moving, either - it just stands there in front of him, gazing at him with its cold eyes. Geralt’s mouth goes dry. His sword shakes in his grip. He realizes that he’s half-hard, and doesn’t quite manage to bite back a soft groan.

At the sound, the spriggan moves forward. Geralt takes a wobbly step back. His ankle connects with an errant root and he stumbles. In the moment it takes to right himself, the spriggan appears directly in front of him. The top of Geralt’s head barely reaches the monster’s chest. Geralt brandishes his sword; the spriggan knocks it effortlessly from his weak grip. 

Geralt’s head feels like it’s been stuffed with cotton. His tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth. Fear is something with which Geralt is intimately familiar, and what he’s feeling now isn’t that. No, this is something else entirely, and he’s only felt it once, though very recently.

He glances down and utters a strangled sound. The cloth wrapped around the spriggan’s hips is barely more than a rag and does little to conceal what’s behind it. Its cock is proportional to the rest of it, wet at the tip and fully hard, and Geralt immediately wants it in his mouth.

Before he can drop to his knees, the spriggan reaches out to stop him, shaking its head slowly. Its clawed hands wrap carefully around Geralt’s torso, then lift him into the air. He yelps and struggles instinctively. The spriggan tightens its grip, forcing the air out of Geralt’s lungs. His legs kick weakly, but he forces them to go still. 

He hears a deep sigh that seems to come from the forest itself. The spriggan lifts Geralt higher. One of its hands moves from Geralt’s side, and he pales as a claw works itself under the waistband of his trousers. Then he hears a ripping sound and realizes what’s happening: His trousers and smallclothes fall away in tatters, exposing his lower half. Geralt moans as his aching cock is finally freed. There's a metallic clatter as his chest armor hits the ground.

The spriggan observes him with what Geralt swears is amusement. With more grace than Geralt expects, it turns him in its grasp, so that he’s facing away from it. It grips his thigh in one enormous hand and lifts it until it's at an angle to Geralt’s torso. Its other hand is wrapped firmly around his ribcage, holding him aloft.

Once again, Geralt is defenseless. Once again, he doesn’t much mind.

The spriggan’s cock isn’t as big as the wyvern’s had been, but it’s still much larger than any human’s could ever be. Geralt grits his teeth, biting back another embarrassing sound. He finds himself eagerly anticipating the inevitable ache he’ll be feeling soon.

There’s a quiet crackling sound behind him. Geralt cranes his neck, trying to see what’s happening, and he nearly chokes. Dozens of smooth, tapered roots, each as thick as two of Geralt’s fingers, have sprung from the spriggan’s abdomen. They coil around Geralt’s torso, his arms, his thighs. The spriggan removes its hands, and Geralt braces himself for his impending fall to the ground. 

But the roots are strong and support his weight easily. Geralt finds himself suspended above the forest floor, tilted at a slight angle. The roots spread Geralt’s cheeks, and he feels a brief pressure at his hole before one of them pushes inside. 

Geralt moans a curse. His cock is leaking against his belly. More roots slither up his chest, forcing their way into his mouth. He sucks at them eagerly, greedily, and they slide deeper. Geralt swallows around them, trying and failing not to choke. His eyes roll back and he whines. 

He hears another groaning sigh as a second root shoves its way inside of him, then a third. Geralt cries out around the roots in his throat. He pushes his hips back, silently begging for more. The roots spread him wide, and his cock twitches. Then Geralt feels the wet, enormous head of the spriggan’s cock against him for a moment before it enters him fully in one fluid motion.

Geralt nearly blacks out, but it’s not from pain: The roots holding him open ease the way. It just feels so fucking _good._ Suspended in the air, at the mercy of a being twice his size - Geralt has never felt such bliss. He wishes that his arms were free, so that he could run a hand along his stomach and feel the bulge of the spriggan’s cock inside him. 

A thinner root wraps tightly around the base of Geralt’s dick, right behind his balls. Geralt moans and thrusts his hips weakly. Then the spriggan starts _moving,_ and Geralt’s body goes taut as a bowstring. While not exactly gentle, it’s slow and steady, and it gives Geralt time to adjust and relax as much as he can.

The roots between his lips move in tandem with the cock in his ass, and Geralt gags on the saliva that’s collected in his throat. His face is damp with sweat, tears, and spit. He struggles against the roots holding him, trying to encourage the spriggan to move _faster_ , give him _more_ , he can _take_ it **—**

But the spriggan either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care. It keeps the same steady pace, forcing Geralt to feel the hot, slow drag of its cock inside him. Despite his decades of training, the mutations, the fact that he was made to kill monsters, Geralt doesn’t hold the power here. Distantly, he realizes that anyone could stumble upon this scene - a witcher taking a spriggan’s cock up his ass - and _oh, gods,_ he nearly comes at the thought. Geralt whimpers when the root around his cock tightens its grip, reminding him that he’s not in charge. The spriggan could kill him in an instant, but it doesn’t seem interested in doing anything other than using Geralt to get itself off.

Suddenly, the roots in his mouth pull away, connected to Geralt’s lips with a thick string of saliva. Geralt keeps his mouth open, hoping that they’ll resume fucking his throat. But they don’t - instead, the spriggan flips him over so that Geralt is facing it again. He gasps when he sees the outline of the spriggan’s cock through the muscles of his abdomen. It finally increases its pace, fucking him faster, harder, impossibly deeper.

_Oh, fuck—_

Geralt throws his head back with a keening cry. _This_ is what he’s wanted - the spriggan finally showing its power and brute strength. The bruises and aches from this encounter will fade much too quickly, but Geralt will remember the sight of his rounded stomach, the feeling of being so full he would happily burst without a struggle.

“Yeah,” he gasps, “yeah, fuck me, _ah,_ come on—”

This time, the forest’s groan echoes in Geralt’s ears. The spriggan pulls back, stretching Geralt’s rim around the thick head of its cock, then slams home. As Geralt cries out, the spriggan repeats its movements, again and again, until it finally stops with its hips pressed flush against Geralt’s thighs. The roots wrapped around Geralt’s body are quivering gently, and Geralt somehow knows what it means.

_Come inside me, fuck, please—_

But the spriggan has slightly different plans. With another groan from the trees, it pulls out and proceeds to cover Geralt’s gaping hole with its come - and gods, there’s a lot of it, thick and hot and perfect. Geralt’s making sounds that he can barely hear over the rush of blood in his ears. He thinks it’s over, and hopes that maybe the roots will let him come, too.

The spriggan slides the head of its cock through the mess between Geralt’s cheeks. Geralt shudders at the sensation, at the brush of pressure against his sensitive hole, and distantly thinks how strange it is for a spriggan to experience post-coital tenderness. A soft sigh whispers through the forest, then, and the spriggan suddenly pushes itself back inside. 

Geralt squirms in the roots’ grasp as the spriggan slowly fucks its come into him. He’s so close, right on the edge, when the root wrapped beneath his balls loosens, coiling around his cock instead. It tugs twice, and Geralt comes with a whimpered curse, coating his bulging stomach as the spriggan pushes into him one last time.

Dazed, Geralt barely registers the roots lowering him to the ground. The spriggan’s softening cock slips out of him with a wet sound that makes Geralt shiver. When his back touches the forest floor, he doesn’t even think to reach for his silver sword, though it’s only inches from his hand. Geralt strongly suspects that Fox Hollow’s hunters will remain unscathed for the foreseeable future: The spriggan had only needed a sacrifice of sorts, and Geralt had unwittingly - though quite willingly - presented himself as such.

When the fog in his mind finally lifts, Geralt realizes that the spriggan is gone. The birds have resumed their song, and a fox stalks through the underbrush nearby. There’s a light breeze blowing - it feels nice against his flushed skin. His chest armor seems unscathed, but the trousers and smallclothes are ruined. Luckily, he has another pair of both in Roach’s saddlebags. 

For now, however, Geralt needs to meditate. He carefully props himself up on his elbows to assess his body. His thighs are lined with fading bruises from the tight grip of the roots. He tenses his muscles and winces, then gasps when come drips between his cheeks. Geralt imagines what it must look like, his stretched hole pink and leaking, and his cock twitches. 

“Fuck,” he mutters. He’d do something about it, but he’s so tired and sore that even the thought of standing makes him groan. With some effort - and a bit more gasping and twitching - Geralt manages to get into his meditation position. He closes his eyes and focuses on healing.

When he returns to Roach, Geralt digs through the saddlebags for fresh clothes. He’d used the remnants of his other trousers to clean himself up as best he could, but he knows that only a long bath will really do the job. He rides back to the Ruddy Brush to collect his coin from the woman, who thankfully doesn’t ask too many questions. Then Geralt heads straight for Corvo Bianco for a hot bath and a bottle of wine. 

When he arrives at the vineyard, Geralt ensures that Roach is in the right hands and dodges B.B.’s politely curious questions. He asks for a bath to be drawn and doesn’t leave his bedroom until it’s ready. After he’s clean and dry, Geralt lets B.B. know he’s retiring for the evening and bids him goodnight. He finally collapses into bed, naked and exhausted. 

In the morning, Geralt wakes up rock hard and sticky with sweat after a night of deeply filthy dreams. He gets himself off twice to the memory of the spriggan’s coal-black eyes watching him writhe on its cock. As he pants into his pillow, Geralt finally admits to himself that a human will never be able to please him again.

He finds that he’s strangely alright with that.

**Author's Note:**

> Come chat with me on Twitter [@stonedgeralt](https://twitter.com/stonedgeralt)!
> 
> Special thanks to Eman, smiecht, and OrgasmicCrayons for their support!


End file.
